


Haunting Presence

by captaincuppy



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Why does everyone drink Oswald's booze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brief story of Ed Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot, and the bowler hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunting Presence

Beams of stray moonlight color the corridor’s wallpapers with the red of blood. Oswald’s passing shadow chases the hungry blaze away. The rhythm of his uneven steps echoes, quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow. He’s still got his bowler hat on, wet and windtorn, while he’s holding on to a bottle of whisky. 

He’s out of breath, lungs sticking to his hollow bones. He swallows the dry air, he swallows some of the dry whisky, the tip of his tounge pressing to his palate. 

He opens the door with his elbows. It screams in return.

The hovering wildfire of the candles is just above the long-long desk. There’s a new scent. It scratches Oswald’s throat, sparkling quick associations; suddenly, the very air is thick with a powerful presence. 

The path of flames leads to a waxy shadow, lounging on Oswald’s chair. 

Oswald opens his mouth to a cowardly shout, but the sound never comes. He inches closer, wobbling, and the half-foreign figure becomes illuminated. Oswald’s hips hit the edge of the table, and the pain is dulled by curiosity as his gaze follows the features of the man’s face.

Silence.

Oswald’s hand is on his belt, the cold press of his pistol a comforting weight. He caresses it in stealth, and takes a silent sip from the whisky. The man beams, his teeth a white flash:

“You kept me waiting.” 

It’s his crisp voice which finally makes Oswald remember him. 

Oswald snorts, his chin pressed down. His smile is jovial as he limps closer. Exposing his arms, he strokes the long line of chairs, and there’s something ostentatious, something downright flirty in the way his wrist wobbles in the quivering light of the candles. 

Ed’s glance is all too eager. 

“I forgot,” Oswald says. He doesn’t specify what, or who. 

He remains standing. He tosses the hat on the table with a playful twirl, statisfied when he catches Ed Nygma’s mesmerised smile. 

Another sip; the sharp lines on his neck taut. He clicks his tounge.

“By the way; are all my people dead?” 

Ed pouts, his eyebrows arching up. 

“I lie with you in your birth beds, yet I scarcely stand by your deathbeds. What am I?”

He waits as the moments march away. Oswald stares at him narrowly, his gaze flinching away as Ed crosses his legs with an inpatient hurriedness. 

“Innocence,” the man bursts out, triumphant. He taps the rhythm of the word on the armrest. “I am _IN-no-cence._ ”

“You broke in,” Oswald states, pointing the bottle’s neck towards Ed accusingly. “You might have robbed me for all I know, so if you’re offended by me calling you a killer, then friend, you got lost in the details.”

Ed’s grin flashes with superiority. 

“And yet you’re the one asking the wrong questions.” 

Oswald scoffs, his nostrils flaring white, his chest puffed. 

“What do you want?”, he hisses, and Ed cooes: 

“Better. Much better.”

Oswald cocks the gun. He doesn’t aim it, he’s just playing with it, tenderly tossing and twirling it around his spidery fingers. Seconds click away. He lowers his gaze, the lush lashes fluttering. He can feel Ed’s stolen glances on his hands. 

Oswald allows his elbow to touch the desk, and with his chest turning towards Ed he points the gun to his high forehead, then the thin nose, and the smiling lips. It’s like the careful caress of a lover. Oswald’s face is faded by apathic anger, his lips pressed to a thin line. Ed seems to be quite excited. 

“Shall I ask it again?” Oswald whispers, his digits on the trigger. Ed peeks at the pistol, but his hazy glance soon returns to Oswald’s face.

“I hoped you’d figure it out on your own,” he scolds. “That’s your _thing_ , right?” 

Oswald presses the gun closer.

“Will you answer me, please?”

Ed doesn’t flinch away. He’s measuring Oswald as a predator would regard his soon-to-be pray. His smile hides a deathly bite, then it becomes merry with glee as he leans forward. Oswald’s eyes widen in shock as Ed slides the gun into his mouth. His uneven teeth click on the smooth metal, and Ed looks Oswald in the eye as he swallows it with wet huffs of air. 

Oswald bites on his tounge and grabs the whisky with his left hand. He takes a weak sip. Testing, he slids the gun deeper down Ed’s throat. Ed chokes, groaning softly, and his head hits the backrest, but he doesn’t back away. 

Oswald chuckles, a wicked grin spreading on his lips. He leans in, his lower arm pressed to Ed’s chest. He can feel his greedy yearning pulsing from his body with every wheezy breath. 

“So be it,” Oswald smirks. “What’s the deadline?” 

Ed mumbles something, with the gun resting on his tounge, his voice muffled and deep. Oswald cocks his neck; he looks almost sweet. 

“Pardon me, what was that?” He strengthens his hold, so Ed cannot move. 

He doesn’t seem to mind. As Ed stares at him, his pupils are dangerously dialeted, reflecting the blaze of the candlelights. Oswald’s breath catches in his throat. He tries to hide it. He pulls the gun out with an obscene pop. 

Ed is sitting straight, his cheast heaving, and his voice is husky and hoarse: 

“Until next time.” 

Oswald’s smirk is disappointed. The gun is aimed at the ceiling. 

“Not much of a lead.” 

“I’m afraid I overestimated you,” Ed grunts as he stands up, pressing closer, “if you need more.” 

Oswald’s breath catches, but he doesn’t dare to move. Ed hops on the table, and with his legs scissoring in the air, turns around with a sudden grace. He grabs Oswald’s hat and places it on his neatly combed head in an elaborate manner; he even takes the remains of the whisky with him. 

“Until next time,” he proposes a toast and gulps down the last sip, tossing the empty bottle to the table. 

Oswald doesn’t reach for it. For all he cares, it could fall down and break to a million pieces: he’d kick them to kingdom come with all the unfulfilled anger of yet another standoff between Edward Fucking Nygma and him. Nothing would remain but a handful of glittering dust.

Oswald’s just standing there, frozen, in the vacuum of a trembling room washed by the first cloudy rays of the daybreak, and it dawns on him that the lock must have clicked quite a long ago,  
and the candles must have burned out quite a long ago,  
and that a new day must have begun somewhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> My very special thank you goes to @for_autumn_i_am for translating it from Hungarian. <3


End file.
